The Dragonriders of Pern - Anne McCaffrey [217]
D’ram looked about to argue, but F’lar caught and held his eyes until the man slowly nodded.
“That’s easy to say, but what are you going to do about T’kul? Or T’ron?” Kylara had just realized no one was paying her any attention. “He’s just as bad. He refuses to admit times have changed. Even when Mardra deliberately . . .”
There was a brisk knock on the door but it swung open instantly, to admit the giant frame of Fandarel.
“I was told you were here, F’lar, and we are ready.”
F’lar scrubbed at his face, regretting the diversion.
“The Lord Holders are in Conclave,” he began and the Smith grunted acknowledgment, “and there has been another unexpected development . . .”
Fandarel nodded toward the fire lizard on Kylara’s arm. “I was told about them. There are many ways to fight Thread, of course, but not all are efficient. The merits of such creatures remain to be seen.”
“The merits—” Kylara began, ready to explode with outrage.
Robinton the Harper was beside her, whispering in her ear.
Grateful to Robinton, F’lar turned to attend the Smith, who had stepped to the door, obviously wanting the dragonmen to accompany him. F’lar was reluctant to see the distance-writer. It wouldn’t receive the attention it deserved from the Lords or the people or the riders. The distance-writer made so much more sense in this emergency than unreliable lizards. And yet, if they did eat Thread . . .
He paused on the threshold, looking back toward Kylara and the Harper. Robinton looked directly at him.
Almost as if the Harper read his mind, F’lar saw him smile winningly down at Kylara (though F’lar knew the man detested her).
“F’lar, do you think it’s wise for Kylara to go out into that mob? They’ll scare the lizard,” said the Harper.
“But I’m hungry—” Kylara protested. “And there’s music—” as the nearby thrum of a gitar was plainly audible.
“That sounds like Tagetarl,” Robinton said, with a bright grin. “I’ll call him in and send you choice victuals from the kitchen. Far better than struggling with that noisome rabble out there, I assure you.” He handed her to a chair with great courtesy, motioning behind his back to F’lar to leave.
As they stepped out into the bright sunlight, the crowd swirling noisily around them, F’lar saw the merry-faced young man, gitar in hand, who had answered the Harper’s whistle. Undoubtedly Robinton would be free to join them in a few moments if he read matters rightly. The young journeyman would definitely appeal to Kylara’s—ah—nature.
Fandarel had set up his equipment in the far corner of the Court, where the outside wall abutted the cliff-Hold, a dragonlength from the stairs. Three men were perched atop the wall, carefully handing something down to the group working on the apparatus. As the Weyrleaders followed Fandarel’s swath through the press of bodies (the fellis blossom fragrance had long since given way to other odors), F’lar was the object of many sidelong glances and broken conversations.
“You watch, you’ll see,” a young man in the colors of a minor Hold was saying in a carrying voice. “Those dragonmen won’t let us near a clutch . . .”
“The Lord Holders, you mean,” another said. “Fancy anything trusting that Nabolese. What? Oh. Great shells!”
Now, if everyone on Pern could possess a fire lizard, wondered F’lar, would that really solve the problem?
More dragons in the sky. He glanced up and recognized T’ron’s Fidranth and